Candlelight
by A-D-E-E-E-R
Summary: When Greg confronts his wife about the 'PE teacher she's been sleeping with', things don't go well. In a time when he can't go home, Greg finds solace in one of his friends, Molly Hooper. They have been strictly friends for years... but everyone looks different in the candlelight. Molly/Greg oneshot.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or anything related to the show. All rights go to the BBC.**

**Author's Note: My first attempt at a Mollstrade story :) I may turn this into a multi-chapter fic in the future if it gains enough interest.**

**Enjoy:**

Greg Lestrade was pissed. Or rather, he _wasn't _pissed. That was the problem. He hadn't drowned himself in five pints of lager and so he still felt the crushing weight inside him – the uncontrollable anger and loathing. That damned PE teacher. His damned wife… ex-wife. Soon to be ex-wife. Not soon enough in Greg's mind.

Oh but the kids. Oh for goodness sake, the kids. His two boys. Things were going to change so much. Would he still even be counted as their dad? The sort that did the everyday things like getting them both up on a morning and sloppily making breakfast, ushering them to school with a few seconds to spare, half-heartedly chastising them for not doing their homework, playfully arguing about football teams, playing board games whilst the fish fingers are cooking in the oven.

Or was all that going to their new fitness-freak-daddy? And would that git make Greg be the other sort? The other dad. The every other weekend dad. The dad with the compensatingly large rooms filled with unsentimental bric-a-brac. The dad desperate to know every school parents evening and Christmas play. The dad that got the pitying but slightly superior looks from the other parents at school.

The dad that didn't get the kids.

That was the hardest part. Greg knew that he would never get full custody of them. Or maybe not even half. Juggling his job where he could get called to a murder at any point whilst being there for his boys was near impossible – the dead don't really seem to understand the concept of _timing. _The fact that he also made a lot of enemies in his line of work, dealing with the shadier, bohemian side of London on a daily basis, just added to the ammunition his wife could throw at him in court.

Damn that stupid PE teacher with his corresponding holidays and safe, stable job.

"Bastard," Greg muttered at the thought.

And to make a bad day even worse, just as Greg was about to mount the step to his well-visited local pub, the sign in the window flipped from a cheery OPEN with an emoticon on of a pint, to a condoling CLOSED, the hand that had flipped it disappearing behind the tacky curtains.

"Really?!" Greg exclaimed, clapping a hand to his forehead. "Seriously? Bloody brilliant this is."

In his angered mutterings, the door to the tavern opened a sliver and the smiling countenance of Mr Poole appeared in the gap. As he saw Greg, his grin widened. As did the door.

"I thought that was you I heard!" he boomed happily at the detective inspector. "I thought you said you and the missus were going to Dorset for Christmas?"

Greg couldn't help the small growl at the back of his throat. This didn't go unnoticed by Mr Poole, who raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Nah," Greg sighed. "Don't ask. We… we were meant to leave yesterday but… plans changed."

Mr Poole smiled sympathetically, "Little tiff? Oh don't worry, June and I went through that. You'll get over it in no time."

"Not this time, I reckon," Greg grimaced, running his hand over his face before pointing to the sign. "No room for your favourite punter?"

"Sorry, mate. Closing up early. Goin' to the mother-in-law's place in Norfolk."

"Shame, if there was ever a time I needed a pint, it would be now," Greg said wistfully, turning on his heel. "Alright, Neil. Have a good time in Norfolk. Say hello to your mother for me."

Mr Poole nodded respectfully as he stepped back and closed the pub door.

Now stood at the curb, Greg looked at the closed doors and sighed again. What was he supposed to do now? Where was he supposed to _go_ now? There was no way he was going back home. No way. The only time we would ever step foot in that place again would be when he picked up his stuff and left.

But it wasn't as if he was overflowing with friends and family to go to. And there was no way he could go to 221B. He couldn't deal with Sherlock and his stupid deductions right now. The people at the police force weren't exactly friends either, it was better to keep a strictly professional relationship – it wouldn't do for people to start taking liberties.

And so, he supposed, that left one last person he could contact. Molly Hooper.

He was sure she didn't have any plans. She was still gooey-eyed over Sherlock Holmes. Though, how anyone could fancy that obnoxious arsehole was beyond Greg's understanding, especially when he was so cold towards the mousy pathologist.

Greg's lip twitched up in annoyance. He didn't have many friends, but those he did have, he was very protective of. And, no offence intended to Molly, she wasn't the type of girl to stand up for herself, more the one to internalise her feelings until she was alone.

Or at least, that was what Greg presumed. She had to have an outlet _somewhere. _And with Sherlock constantly treating her like crap, that needed to be a pretty big outlet.

Hoping that she would answer and not make him look like a needy puppy, Greg took out his phone and called her.

She answered on the second ring.

"Hello?" she asked in that timid voice of hers, making Greg feel both sorry he disturbed her, and just glad to hear her voice.

"Hi, Molly, it's me. I hope I'm not interrupting anything…"

"No, no! I'm just sat on my own," she laughed a little hollowly. "As per usual."

"Right, well, I was wondering if it would be okay if I popped 'round. I know it's Christmas and everything, but… some stuff's made things… complicated," Greg winced at the large pauses that seemed to convey absolutely everything.

"No, no! That's fine, _more _than fine. I've actually got some wine from my sister so I suppose I could open that and, oh, there are those fancy chocolates from Gran and I think I've still got some leftover turkey that I could make something with... Do you like pie?"

Greg chuckled, "Just a cuppa for me, thanks Molly."

He heard her sigh, "Okay, I'll get the wine ready."

Greg laughed again, and hung up. Then he realised what he was doing. He was laughing. He raised his eyebrows in disbelief and ran a rand over his face. On the day he thought he would never laugh again...

Checking in his pockets, Greg saw that he didn't have enough money for a cab – good job the pub was shut after all – and so took the fifteen minute walk through the snow. The flakes landed lightly on his greying hair and giving his cheeks a pink hue. He pulled his coat closer around himself.

When he finally got to Molly's, his hair was mostly white and his thin coat was soaked through. He knocked on the door, and attempted to brush the snow from his head while he waited. There was some scuffling on the other side of the door, the sound of keys falling to the floor, a murmur of 'oops', jangling as the keys were retrieved, and at last, the door opened.

"Sorry, you know what I'm like," she apologised with a nervous laugh. "In a world of my own."

"No, it's fine."

An awkward pause filled the air.

"Uh... can I come in?"

Molly's eyes widened comically, "Oh yes! Sorry, God sorry, come on in."

She hurriedly stepped back and closed the door behind him. Greg slipped off his snowy boots and managed to peel off the drenched coat. Molly took it from him before he had a chance to hang it up and draped it over the radiator to dry.

"There TV's on in the living room and I'll just be a minute with the wine. Err, make yourself at home," she smiled and disappeared into the kitchen.

Greg nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose. It had been a draining day, and all he wanted now was to just relax with Molly and forget all about relationships and love and stupid cheating wives. But that was when he heard it. Greg stopped just before the door into the living room. No… not now.

_Oh, my love, my darling  
I've hungered for your touch_

"No…" Greg whined.

Maybe it was just a record playing and he could quickly change it without Molly noticing. But as Greg pushed open the door, he saw that his worst fear had been realised.

Ghost was the movie of the night on the TV.

Greg growled slightly and averted his eyes from the screen. The last thing he needed was a topless Patrick Swayze emasculating him right now.

_Oh, look Greg, I can keep a woman even after I destroy her pottery! Ooh!_

"Everything okay?" a voice asked from inside the room.

Greg snapped himself out of his bitter thoughts to see Molly stood in the middle of the carpet holding two very large tumblers of wine.

"Sorry I don't have any glasses," she apologised. "A lot of them, uh, broke. Well, I dropped them."

Out of the corner of his eye, Greg noticed the pile of glass beside the sofa and the torn wallpaper above it.

"You dropped them against the wall?" Greg asked with a raised eyebrow.

Molly placed the tumblers on the coffee table and folded her arms around herself, "I was… letting off steam."

"Sherlock?"

Molly sighed and dropped onto the sofa, "Do you even need to ask?"

Greg took the spot next to her, "What's he done now?"

"Nothing. Just being Sherlock, I suppose."

"What happened?"

Molly chewed her lip distractedly, "Just… yesterday. It seems like… he has to do something to hurt me for him to show me least bit of attention," she fumbled with her fingers in her lap, seemingly fighting back tears. "He _must _know how I feel about him. I mean, he's… he's _Sherlock! _He knows everything… I just wish that he would acknowledge it. Even if he says that he doesn't feel the same way – which I know he doesn't. But now… it feels like he's just toying with me, using me…"

She gave a shuddering breath, and Greg immediately put his arm around her shoulders.

"Hey," he said gently, squeezing her shoulder. "Don't get upset over him, Molls. You know what he's like, completely oblivious to sentiment. It might just be that he doesn't understand it."

Molly shook her head, "No. He knows. We've been working together for so long now, there's no way he can't know."

Greg grimaced, unsure of what to say to that. He finally conjured, "Do you want me to speak to him?"

"No!" Molly cried in outrage, ripping her hands away from her face to stare at Greg with wide eyes. "Please, don't mention this to anyone. Please."

Greg raised his hands in surrender, "Okay, I won't tell him."

"Or anyone."

"Or anyone," he agreed.

Molly's rigid posture began to deflate, convinced that her 'secret' was safe. She sank back into the sofa and, for the first time, paid attention as to what was playing on the TV.

"Fitting scene, isn't it?" she joked weakly.

Greg snorted, "You're telling me."

She turned to look at him, confusion in her red-rimmed eyes, "Is everything okay with you and Christine?"

Greg had steeled himself for the question, but still managed to wince at the name. Molly, the observant woman that she was, noticed.

"Oh, it isn't about what Sherlock said yesterday about the Christine and the PE teacher was it? You know he was probably just saying that to get a reaction out of you," Molly told him.

"No," Greg plastered a fake smile onto his face, trying to keep his tone neutral. "No, she, erm, she admitted it. After I confronted her, of course."

Molly's face suddenly moulded into sympathy. She grasped his forearm, "Greg, I'm so sorry."

He flashed her an insincere smile that was gone in an instant. He looked down at the floor, blinking rapidly.

"What are you going to do?" Molly asked quietly.

Greg sniffed and cleared his throat, "Uh, it's been too many times now. We… called it off. For the kids, you know."

At the thought of his children, the aching sensation in his chest intensified. It felt like it was rising in his throat, waiting to surface as a scream. Greg pursed his lips to prevent it from being released. Molly's grip on his arm increased. He only looked back up at her when he heard her sniff. There were tears in her eyes again, this time for both herself and her friend.

"Come 'ere," Greg said shakily and pulled Molly into his arms.

She immediately wrapped his arms around him and cried softly into his shoulder. Greg could feel moisture building in his own eyes, and soon, tears were falling down his face. He clung to Molly stronger with each wave of pain, and she held him back just as tight.

"What a pair, eh?" he joked feebly.

She laughed tearfully into the crook of his neck.

The pair stayed that way for a few minutes, before they managed to control themselves. Molly pulled away first, fixing her hair back from where it had been pressed against Greg's shirt, and drying her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"Sorry–" she began, but Greg cut her off.

"Don't; I needed that just as much as you."

"That's what friends are for," Molly said, reaching for the tumblers of wine on the table.

She handed Greg his, "To moving on."

He clinked his glass against hers with a small smile, then frowned into the liquid as he went to take a drink. He couldn't explain how he felt… disappointed? He shook his head and took a large gulp of red wine. That would stop it.

Molly had turned back to the TV, and so, reluctantly, did Greg.

"Y'know," Molly said thoughtfully. "If I was making a pot, which I've never done before, but hey-ho. If I was making a pot and it was going well, if some stupid topless man came from behind me and just completely ruined it, I wouldn't then snog him and smile. Would you?"

"I'd be more concerned as to why there would be a topless man in my house in the middle of the night," Greg admitted, making Molly giggle lightly.

The music intensified, and the pair watched as Patrick Swayze carried Demi Moore over to the sofa.

"Sex was never like that for me," Molly piped up. "You?"

Greg shook his head. He and Christine were usually too tired. That thought was another pang in his heart.

"And, see, this next bit coming up, it just isn't realistic," Molly continued. "I mean, who kisses with their eyes open the entire time? Look, just now…"

But at that moment, the TV screen went black, along with the room. The only light was from the streetlight glaring in through the window. Greg and Molly were silent for a moment before Molly groaned.

"Sorry, it must be the snow."

"Why are you apologising?" Greg asked, slightly amused. "You don't control the weather."

She shrugged, "Force of habit. Now, I know I have some candles over in the cabinet," she crossed the room, Greg following her dark silhouette. "You can turn that lamp on beside you, it's battery."

Molly retrieved the candles and matches, and began to light them around the edge of the room. She put a couple on the coffee table. They didn't give off much light, just giving the objects in front of them a dark, golden glow.

"Any luck with that lamp?" Molly asked, putting the matches back away.

Greg frowned, "Where's the switch?"

"On the floor beside the sofa arm."

"Where…? Oh yeah, got it – ouch!" he hissed and hurriedly cradled his hand to his chest.

"What's wrong?" Molly asked, walking over to him.

"Cut my finger on the shards of glass," he replied with a grimace.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I knew I should have picked those up. Stay there, I'll get a cloth," she quickly left into the kitchen, folding up a thin white cloth and running it under the tap.

She returned and knelt in front of Greg, her back against the coffee table.

"Let's have a look."

"It's fine, I can do it," Greg protested.

"Don't be silly, Detective," Molly smiled. "Give me your hand."

She took it from his lap and began to gently dab at the wound. He watched his blood staining the cloth for a moment, then began to feel a little sick and looked away. He could deal with blood, just not his own.

So he looked at the only distraction in the room. Molly.

Greg watched her, and suddenly his pulse began to flutter. He couldn't help the thought that she looked so beautiful in the candlelight. The tiny flames illuminated the golden flecks in her hair. The curve of her jawline, the soft arc of her cheekbones. Even the soft freckles that painted the bridge of her nose.

But, the thing that was the most beautiful, were her eyes. What Greg had passed off as just 'brown', seemed to be so much more. They were golden, soft, warm. Like melted chocolate. With specks of light green and amber. They were mesmerising.

Then were her lips. Pulled into a small pout of concentration, her tongue jutting ever so slightly against the side of her cheek. They were so inviting. Warm and kind, like the rest of her. It seemed, just to rest his lips against hers, to feel her skin beneath his…

But what was he doing? Molly was a friend. She was just offering him a place to stay. For God's sake, she was hung up over Sherlock! And he was married!

Then why couldn't he look away?

Molly's soothing ministrations stopped, but she kept her hand around his. She kept her line of sight on Greg's hands. Her long fingers brushed against the callouses on his hands. At the feather-light touch, Greg felt his breathing speed up, and noticed Molly's too.

It was too much. The longing. He needed her. It was a compulsion, almost like physical pain. But as long as she averted her gaze from his, he could control himself. If those stunningly beautiful eyes were on his, he would be powerless to her. No, as long as she kept away, he could restrain himself.

But then she did the unthinkable.

She looked up.

Her eyes met his.

Before he knew what he was doing, Greg had knelt down in front of her on the carpet, put a hand on her cheek, and brushed his lips against hers. The touch was fleeting, so much so that Molly wasn't sure that it had even happened. Her breath hitched in her throat. She leaned into his touch.

"Greg," she whispered, but didn't know what else to say.

Neither did he, so he leaned in, and pressed his lips against hers again, lingering for a moment this time. He softly stroked his thumb over her cheek, causing her to moan in pleasure and put a hand on his chest. But then she pushed him away gently.

Her eyes were shimmering as she whispered, "We can't. Greg… you're married… I'm a… I'm a mess."

"Shh," he hushed. "We're both a mess."

"Then we shouldn't be doing this," she shook her head, trying to back away. "It's wrong."

"Do you want to?" Greg asked, choked.

A tear rolled down Molly's face, and she looked away. Greg took her chin with his finger and lightly turned her to face him. She swallowed, and then nodded.

"Then what's wrong about it?" Greg cupped the side of her face, brushing the tear away with the pad of his thumb.

She moaned again, breath catching as she turned her face into his hand, once again looking away from him.

"I love you like a brother," she murmured.

At that, Greg felt his world, that had been just clinging on by a few delicate threads, crumble. His vision blurred and tears began to fall. Frantically, he took hold of Molly's face with both hands.

"Tell me you don't mean that," he begged, desperation clear in his voice. "Look me in the eyes and tell me!"

He felt her shudder and face contort as she cried. He thought then that it was over, that he had just ruined another friendship. He was asking for too much. Just as he opened his mouth to apologise, she turned to him, and looked him in the eye.

Hazel met grey. Desperation met desperation. Love met love.

And her lips met his.

* * *

The power still wasn't back on, not that it mattered to Greg. He felt Molly shiver beside him, and pulled her closer to his chest protectively, making sure that the duvet was pulled tightly around her naked body. Her face nuzzled into the crook of his neck, each warm breath making him smile. Reminding him that she was there. Reminding him that she was his.

And as he looked out of the window at the dark street, watching the flakes fall on the houses outside, Greg pressed a kiss to Molly's forehead – _his Molly _– and thanked his lucky stars for that damned PE teacher.

* * *

**Was that okay?**

**Thanks for reading,**

**Please review,**

**Abby**

**X**


End file.
